


Paint yourself a picture

by elena0206



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blindfolds, Body Image, Body Worship, EatTheRare, Frandall, Just not how you'd expect it, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Rare Pairings, Sensuality, Species Dysphoria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 10:37:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8010355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elena0206/pseuds/elena0206
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Randall Tier is the supportive boyfriend Francis Dolarhyde needs in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint yourself a picture

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you hannibalcreative for organizing this event! I've been looking forward to it for a while because I'm in love with so many rare pairings. This time I chose to write Frandall (Francis Dolarhyde/Randall Tier), which is a ship I came up with (or at least I think so?) and that I'm very fond of. 
> 
> A few additional things:  
> -this is my first time writing these characters  
> -this fic wasn't beta read  
> -what Randall is supportive of is dubious, to say at least  
> -the title is from Sixx:A.M.'s "Skin" - "Paint yourself a picture / Of what you wish you looked like"  
>   
> Enjoy! ♥

* * *

Francis’ face contorts into a pained expression of disgust as he stares at his own reflection into the floor-length mirror. There’s a wary beast in front of him and Randall Tier just behind, his torso pressed against Francis’ back, head resting heavily on his shoulder.

“What do you see?” Randall’s voice is but a whisper, warm and raspy, tickling Francis’ ear.

His eyes are cold and inscrutable, searching Francis’ face in the mirror with a steadiness that makes the latter avert his gaze.

“I don’t see… me.”

Sounds foreign to him, even as he says it. _Me_. The self-fabricated concept of self, lacking in substance and sufficient points of intersection with the reality presented in front of him. The unreality of a reality dissonant with the internal map of a conflicted psyche, collapsing in on itself.

“Tell me what you _do_ see,” urges Randall, unfaltering still, eyes pinned on the mirror.

Francis swallows, a painful knot slides down his throat, and his breath becomes blades and needles. Hefty words too heavy to push past his lips, and then small words escaping through his teeth. An imperfect silence settles in.

Randall shifts behind Francis, a minuscule change in his stance that makes him look taller now. Bright eyes, slender limbs, cold bones under his soft skin.

“A half-man, half-alive… in the skin of a beast.”

Randall blinks – once or twice, Francis can’t tell. He isn’t looking. He can’t look at the man who is looking into his soul.

“Are you the man or the best?”

Francis shakes his head, knowing all too well Randall demands a verbal answer. He always does.

“Neither.”

Randall smirks, lopsided and wicked.

“Not yet.”

The warm mass of Randall’s body suddenly disappears, making space for a wave of cold air to hit Francis’ back. Not unpleasant, but different now. Adjusting takes time. Randall’s absence does not allow adjustment, and he soon returns.

Francis feels a ring of slight pressure around his head when Randall secures the silk scarf over his eyes with a tight knot. He’s been waiting for it, anticipating it, and yet a slight shiver travels through his limbs as Randall grazes his fingertips on Francis’ scalp, down his neck, trailing the curve of his shoulders, and finally settling firmly on his abdomen.

Randall places a light kiss on the other’s neck, and smiles against his skin. “I’ll tell you what I see now,” he begins, voice calm and unwavering. He continues kissing along Francis’ neck, moving towards his back.

“Your skin does not hold flesh and bones,” he says, eyes closed and lips pressed on Francis’ back. Slow and deliberate words, placed in time with his kisses. Breath and touch working together. “You are made of light and fire.”

He takes Francis’ hand and guides it to his own chest, over his heart. He’s rigid, but obedient.  

“Your pulse is a symphony of power,” Randall continues. “Each heart beat sings with the breaths you steal from them. Your heart is pumping for the arteries you cut. The ‘ _if_ ’, the ‘ _could have been_ ’, the ‘ _would be_ ’ – it’s all boiling in your blood. Primordial soup from their demise.”

A short chuckle, then silence. Francis stands and listens.

“All living beings have the power to kill. It’s in our nature – from puny to mighty, from prey to predator. But you are _above_ them. You don’t kill. You _change_.”

Moving in front of Francis, Randall touches his chest, and allows his hands to travel upwards, to his neck, and then jaw.

Francis’ lungs feel small and his chest feels even smeller. He clenches his fists. His body is tensing as Randall inches closer and closer to his face. The air is denser and thicker. The darkness from behind the blindfold is growing unbearable.

Randall gently brushes two fingertips along Francis’ cheek. The latter’s hand jerks in a quick motion and grabs Randall’s wrist, pinning it in place. The grasp of his fingers firmly coiled around Randall’s bones is almost painful, for both of them.

“Don’t,” he breathes out, more of a pleading than a warning. Helpless more than hostile.

But Randall does not stop, and moves his other hand along Francis’ jaw. “Let me. Let me show you.” His voice is softer now than before, more affectionate.

“Your teeth,” he says, ceasing the movement of his fingers on Francis’ face. “They can break through flesh and bone. Rip skin off. Tear muscles apart fiber by fiber.”

Francis’ grip loosens for a second, and then becomes even more powerful than before when Randall touches his lips. Randall’s wrist is cracking in the other’s hand, but he bites down on his lower lip, and does nothing to free himself from the painful restraint. Does nothing to stop Francis from hurting him.

“Your lips,” he goes on, and he can feel Francis’ whole body quivering with each word. “Your lips are the event horizon of impending doom. Nothing ever comes out. Escape is impossible, even for light itself. Your palate opens up and swallows the world whole.”

Francis does not let go. Instead, he takes both of Randall’s hands and guides them to his face. Randall complies, flashing a thin smile, and cups the sides of Francis’ face.

“You are beautiful and atrocious in ways that only a force of nature can ever be.”

A prolonged sigh comes from Francis as he rubs Randall’s palm over his lips, slowly and ever so softly. Randall’s hands are cold, and Francis’ face is burning, but the temperature contrast does not bother him at all.

“Here,” Randall says as he retracts his hands from Francis’ face, and moves behind him again. He places both palms on his back, over his shoulder blades, spreading his fingers wide open. “Your wings. They start from here. Can you feel them?”

“I feel them… growing. Under your touch.” Francis’ breath rasped in his now too tight throat.

“Good,” Randall praises and presses his fingers tips into Francis’ muscles until they’re white and drained of blood, as if pushing down hard enough would unfurl skin and bone where no skin and bone has ever been.

“Are they… large?”

Randall smiles again – a cold and brittle smile now that Francis does not have to decipher.

“Oh, _so_ large,” he replies. “Spread them out and see them breaking the walls apart. You could swipe the moon off the sky with a flick of your wings if you wanted to.” A pause, and then, “Do you want to?”

Following Randall’s question, a moment passes, and then two. Three. The answer is too simple to take this long, and Francis tries, and tries again.

“N-no.”

“What do you want, then?” asks Randall, rising his eyebrows, walking back in front of Francis.

This time the answer comes faster. This time Francis knows the answer before the question has to be asked.

“Awe. I want… awe.” His voice is louder now, confident, almost threatening.

“Then awe you shall have.”

 The black scarf slips down Francis’ face as Randall works the knot at the back of his head. It’s hanging from his neck now, and he blinks a few times, his eyes adjusting with the light again.

“What do you see now?” Randall asks, taking a step away from him, leaving him the whole space in front of the mirror.

A long inhale, strengthening his back, clenching his muscles, and Francis can finally say it.

“I see… The Great Red Dragon.”

In the mirror, a figment of imagination is bounded in flesh and blood. Might and glory. Glowing and growling.

The Great Red Dragon – burning with the power of a thousand suns.

Francis Dolarhyde – reveling in his becoming.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading this! Feedback is always welcome, so don't hesitate to leave a comment. Thank you! ♥


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